


The T-shirt

by sneetchstar



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 19:52:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9623018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar





	1. The Tea

Crane quietly slips into the house. It is not terribly late, but late enough that he knows Miss Mills likely has retired for the evening.

 _Unless she's chosen to wait up for me._ He hopes she has, but at the same time, hopes she has not. He wants to see her – he always does – but he _doesn't_ want to see her. Not after returning home this late after his second date with Miss Corinth.

Abbie has thoughtfully left a few lights on for him, but the living room is empty. He hangs up his coat and removes his boots, then listens. The house is quiet.

He sighs, then pads to his room. He notices a sliver of soft light glowing at the bottom of the door to Miss Mills' bedroom. _She is awake, but ensconced in her room._ He enters his room across the hall, closing the door behind him.

As he changes into his sleepwear (“jammie pants”, as Miss Mills insists on calling them, paired with one of the t-shirts Miss Jenny keeps picking up for him, thinking they are hilarious. Tonight he chooses one that bears an image of the Boston Tea Party with the caption _Party Like It's 1773_ ), he thinks about his evening. It was pleasant enough, but he does not feel the certainty with Miss Corinth he felt with Katrina. _Or with Miss Mills._

The surprising thought stops him cold, his socks hanging from his hand, suspended over his hamper. He shakes his head and closes his eyes, wondering how long he'll be able to keep his feelings hidden.

 _Tea._ He needs some herbal tea to settle his somewhat disorderly mind, and heads back out to the kitchen on silent bare feet to quietly prepare himself a cup of Sleepytime, determined not to disturb the Lieutenant in her seclusion.

Crane switches on the small light over the sink instead of the overhead light, neither needing nor wishing for its glaring brightness. He reaches for the kettle on the stovetop, then turns towards the sink.

“Oh. I thought I heard you come in.” Abbie's voice behind him slightly startles him, and he turns.

“I do hope I did not disturb you, Lieutenant. I was trying to be as quiet as possible,” he replies. “Would you care for some tea? I was just filling the kettle.”

She steps closer and shows him the recently-emptied mug in her hands, smiling.

“Ah,” he responds with a nod. As she comes closer, he notices what she is wearing: a t-shirt, emblazoned with _Fisk University_ across the front in faded blue letters. He knows she did not attend that university, and his brow furrows in confusion.

“Sorry, I know you don't like seeing me in my sleepwear,” she apologizes, remembering how uncomfortable he looks when he sees her bare legs. She moves closer, leading with her cup, and he steps aside to allow her to put it in the sink and rinse it out.

“I am… growing accustomed to it,” he replies, suddenly feeling very unsteady in her presence, almost like he is growing drunk on her very proximity. He gathers his wits. “I was… simply puzzling over your garment.” He sets the kettle on the stove but does not turn on the burner. The shirt is much too large, hanging halfway down her thighs, and he knows she is likely wearing nothing else beneath it, save _maybe_ some sort of undergarment. “I happen to know you attended Empire State University, not Fisk.”

“Oh. Um. Yeah,” Abbie answers, looking a bit rattled. She picks up the mug in the sink and decides to wash it instead of leaving it. She mutters something as she scrubs, but the words are obscured by the running water.

“I'm sorry, I didn't catch that,” Crane presses, wondering – dreading – why she is being so evasive. _Perhaps this is one of those “good fences” moments she so likes to invoke._

She very decisively turns the water off. “It's Danny's, okay?” she repeats. “You've been wondering all this time, and now you know. We had a… a _thing_ when we were both at Quantico.”

His eyes widen and he swears his heart has stopped beating. “Is… is Agent Reynolds here?” he quickly asks, trying to keep the panic from his voice.

“No,” she answers, unable to read his expression. _Is he upset? Uncomfortable?_

_Jealous?_

Crane simply nods and avoids her gaze. “It would not bother me if he were,” he answers, knowing he is lying and knowing she will see it.

“Look, it’s just a shirt,” she says with a sigh, a little annoyed that he is clearly not being honest with her. Then she realizes she’s not being completely honest with him, either. She reaches past him and grabs the dishtowel from where it is hanging on the oven door handle. “I kept it because it’s comfortable to sleep in. That’s it.”

“Forgive me,” he replies, raising his hands. “I did not mean to accuse or imply. I simply…” he sighs, dropping his hands. “I do not know what I meant,” he sighs.

“I'm not sleeping with Danny. And I broke up with him _before_ we graduated,” she says, just to make things totally clear. She tosses the towel to him and he catches it against his chest, nodding as he neatly places it where it belongs. “I wouldn't sleep – or have any sort of romantic entanglement – with my boss any more than I would have with a married man,” she adds, turning away, hoping he won't read too much into the statement. _Shit, why did you say that?_

“Abbie?” he asks, reaching a hand out to her. His fingers just brush her shoulder, then he drops them.

“How was your date with Zoe?” she asks, redirecting. She doesn't turn around.

“You are deflecting, but I will answer your question because it does relate to the topic suddenly at hand,” he says. His voice is soft and measured, and her words about not pursuing romance with a married man are still ringing fresh in his ears. He steps closer and places his hand on her shoulder. She is soft but unyielding, warm but still, and so close. “My date with Zoe was pleasant enough. She is a very sweet young woman and I am grateful for her help.”

“That sounds very… nice?” she responds, somehow making the word sound rather bland.

“That is a word for it,” he agrees. “Another might be 'dull'.” He gently squeezes her shoulder. “I appreciate all she has done for me and consider her a dear friend, but…”

“But?” she whispers, suddenly very afraid of where he is going with his halting words. Afraid because she already knows.

“But she is not you.” The words are whispered close behind her ear. She can feel the warmth from his body behind her. “I do not know why you were pushing me towards her, Miss Mills, but I now know I should thank you for it.”

“What?” she asks, thrown. He is too close, damn near nuzzling through her hair. She feels his other hand on her other shoulder before he speaks again.

“Your pressing me to pursue Miss Corinth led me to fully realize the depth of my feelings for you, Abbie,” he explains, his voice continuing like soft velvet in her ear. “Everything she said, everything she did… I found myself comparing to your words, your actions. She is a lovely woman and will be a loving, attentive wife.” He somehow manages to move closer to Abbie, one hand trailing down her arm. “To someone who is not me,” he finishes, his voice low.

Abbie's knees wobble and she notices she is slightly trembling. His arm snakes around her waist, holding her up.

Holding her close.

Overwhelmed, Abbie’s leaden feet suddenly find the will to move, and she steps away from him, looking down. “Crane, I…” she starts, still facing away. She puts her hand on the counter to steady herself.

“I found myself talking about you to Miss Corinth,” he continues. “Incessantly.” He moves closer to her again, but does not touch. “It was 'Miss Mills and I…' and 'Miss Mills said…' and 'Miss Mills likes…' all evening.”

“Poor girl,” Abbie says, her voice just a breath.

“I am a terrible person,” Crane agrees, but he does not sound very regretful. “When I dropped her off, she squeezed my hand, thanked me for the meal, and told me I am a good friend.”

“Friend,” she repeats.

“Quite emphatically,” he explains. “I think she could already see what I have only just discovered.”

“You're lucky she handled it that well,” she replies, trying to hold on to some sanity, but it is becoming increasingly difficult, what with her partner standing behind her making veiled declarations of love.

He is silent a moment. “Please look at me, Abbie,” he asks, his voice a whisper.

She turns, not wanting to hurt him any more than she has to. “Crane, I...”

“I know you are hesitant, Lieutenant,” he says. The nickname to which he has held on has never sounded more like an endearment. “And I know why,” he adds, his fingers flexing at his sides, a habit that has all but disappeared. “If you tell me you feel nothing beyond friendship for me, we will end this conversation and you may walk away, secure in the knowledge that I will never broach this subject again.”

Abbie says nothing. She looks straight ahead, at his upper chest, her eyes blankly staring at the image on his shirt. She notices his Adam's apple bob once. She swallows, unsure what to say. She wants to be brave, but more of her wants to hide, to retreat into safe ground and tell him she only thinks of him as a friend.

Lie.

Crane sighs and straightens his posture, clasping his hands behind his back. “Your silence speaks volumes,” he says, chin held high.

To his surprise though, she doesn't move. She doesn't walk away.

“It's not that I don't… feel… _something_ ,” Abbie quietly, hesitantly starts, still staring at his chest instead of his face, “but I… I can't.”

He wishes he was surprised by her resistance, but he isn't. He can only nod once. Her previous actions tonight contradict her current demeanor, but he will take her at her word, even if he knows her word to be false. He knows exactly how far he will get if he attempts to push Abbie Mills.

Finally, she looks at him. “I'm… I'm not ready for this, Ichabod. I'm sorry.”

He gives her a small, sad smile. “I know I must regain your trust,” he says after a moment. “I know my disappearance last year was an unforgivable blow that—”

“I _have_ forgiven you,” she interrupts. “I forgave you almost immediately, but…”

“But you still worry that I'll do it again. That I will leave you the way so many others have,” he quietly says.

Abbie closes her eyes and turns slightly away, not facing him but not putting her back to him either. He can see right into her very soul, cutting straight to her heart, and is not afraid to call her out on it. She loves that about him. She _hates_ that about him.

“You know I cannot make that promise any more than you can promise me the same,” he continues. “For we face peril every day. I can only promise you that if I ever part from your company, it will _not_ be by my choice.” His voice is low and fervent, impassioned but soft, and she knows these are not just empty words. “It would absolutely destroy me to lose you, Abbie. After all that has happened this year, I know this. Therefore… if I may only enjoy your company as a dear friend and nothing more, so be it.” He leans down and angles his head to look into her eyes. “But… if there is a chance for… more, then I will wait. I will wait until you are ready. Come what may, I will wait.”

Abbie blinks and looks down, and a tear slips from the corner of her eye. Crane hesitantly reaches up and gently swipes it away with his finger.

Then he is gone.

The filled kettle on the stove remains unheated.

 

xXx

 

Just over a week later, Abbie returns home from work to an empty house. “Crane?” she calls, wondering where he is. Mild panic seizes her and she makes a beeline for his bedroom. She breathes again when she sees his customary disarray has not been cleared out.

“Stupid,” she mutters to herself. “He's not going to bail again.” She stomps to her room, and her anger with herself grows when she remembers he told her he was going to be in the archives until early evening and that she should not wait dinner for him. “I'm losing my damn mind… and apparently I've started talking to myself.”

She stops in her tracks when she steps into her room. On her bed is his Boston Tea Party t-shirt, folded with military precision on the corner of her bed, perfectly aligned with the corner of the mattress. On top of it is a note.

She reaches down and picks it up.

_Dearest Abigail,_

_Please consider this garment as an alternative to the one formerly owned by Agent Reynolds. I would ask that you wear it only when you are ready to do so._

_Affectionately, I._

_P.S. If my timing is correct, your dinner will be ready presently. I hope you enjoy it._

Abbie reads the letter three times before she hears the ding of the timer. As she walks to the kitchen, she wonders how she didn't smell the food cooking before. She opens the oven door to find a small baking sheet bearing two ramekins containing individual-sized pot pies.

 _They're so cute._ “He made me a tiny pot pie?” she asks aloud, pulling it from the oven, assuming the second one is for him to eat later. She sets it on the stove top to cool for a few minutes while she gets a drink. When she retrieves some ice, she finds two more uncooked small pies in the freezer, and for some reason that makes her smile. _He's planning ahead._ She tries not to think too much about it as she sits down and sinks her fork into the homemade crust. It's delicious.

She does think about the letter and his careful wording. _I would ask that you wear it only when you are ready to do so._


	2. Netflix and Chill

Abbie stares at the shirt. It's been over two months since that night in the kitchen. Closer to three. It's nearly February, and the temperature is below zero even before the wind chill is factored in.

She's still scared. She's picked up the garment countless times, rubbed the soft material between her fingers, held it to her face in search of his scent. She even put it on once, for less than a minute, with her bedroom door locked.

She's frequently thought about wearing it, but has never been brave enough except for the one time. She's thought about what it would feel like to have him hold her, kiss her, make love to her. Wondered these things over and over.

Wondered what has held her back.

She knows she could easily find out, and that scares her almost as much as the thought of losing him does. She would have thought her second journey in and out of an alternate plane of existence would have made her more willing to _carpe_ herself some _diem._

She knows her most recent disappearance was harder on Crane than he let on. She knows because _his_ 9-month disappearance was harder on her than _she_ let on, and he remained on the face of the earth, in the world of the living.

He has been true to his word over these last few months, not pressing, not pushing, but she knows his feelings haven't changed. She knows because there is no one she knows better than her partner. She knows because he is showing her how he feels in other ways.

She almost lost Jenny, and he was there for her. There with a strong, supportive shoulder when she finally broke.

She nearly lost her job and he voluntarily shouldered part of the blame, almost costing himself his nearly-gotten citizenship.

Then she almost lost _him_ and nearly broke again.

He sees her when no one else does. Always has. He knows her better than anyone ever has. She knows she would be lost without him. Cannot imagine her life without him.

 _Why can't I put it on? Why_ won't _I?_

She stares at the shirt, then lifts it from the drawer in which she's been keeping it. She closes her eyes and hugs it to her, then squares her shoulders, making a decision.

Abbie strips out of her clothes, shedding the conservative FBI-friendly garments. She reaches back, unhooks her bra, and drops it in the hamper. Then she takes a deep breath and slips Crane's t-shirt over her head. It engulfs her, but nothing has ever felt better.

She checks her reflection, and decides to remove her socks in favor of her fuzzy slippers because while they both look stupid, somehow the purple slippers are less awkward than black socks.

She knows he is waiting in the living room for her. She promised they would watch a movie of his choosing (which she may regret).

She cannot will her feet to move.

“Miss Mills, is everything all right?” his voice calls, and she realizes it really has been a while since she told him she was going to go change clothes.

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, then wonders why the hell she is so nervous. _It's not like you're worried about him rejecting you._ She takes a step.

“Ah, there you are,” he says, turning to see her slowly approaching. She is gnawing her lower lip so hard he fears she will render the skin raw. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

“Hi,” Abbie says, taking a moment to enjoy his surprised expression. He has also changed into his pajamas, his face frozen above his t-shirt emblazoned with the words _Antique American_. “I… um…”

Crane leaps to his feet and crosses to her, stopping right in front of her. “Abbie…” he says, his voice a fervent whisper, as though he is afraid speaking aloud will scare her away and she will return clad in her own clothing.

“Um…” she starts, not sure what to say. She's hoping she hasn't come across as slutty, wondering if she should have put some pants on with the t-shirt. She _did_ consciously leave her panties on (okay, she put on a clean pair), but now she's afraid he's going to think she's throwing herself at him. “What movie did you choose?”

“Oh,” he exclaims, “er… _Tombstone._ I have recently become very interested in the American 'Wild West', and while I know this is a fictionalized account, it is still based on true events. Plus, I have read very good things about it, and have enjoyed other films in which I have seen Mr. Russell—”

Abbie gently places her fingers on his lips. “You're babbling, Crane,” she quietly says, a smile on her face. The only other Kurt Russell movies he's seen – as far as she knows – are _Big Trouble in Little China_ and _Stargate_. Neither of those are anything like _Tombstone._

He tentatively reaches out and takes both of her hands in his. “Forgive me, Lieutenant. I am merely overwhelmed by this… surprise.” He looks her up and down, from her large brown eyes to her slipper-clad feet, lingering over her shapely legs and appreciating how she fills out his t-shirt in a way he was never able.

“I'm a little nervous,” she admits. “You don't know how many times I almost put this on.”

His eyebrows raise and one corner of his mouth turns up in a half smile. “Truly?” It is nearly a whisper.

She nods, then drops one hand to pull him towards the couch.

“Aren't you… afraid you'll get cold?” he asks, taking another opportunity to look at her legs as he sits.

“That's why we have blankets,” she answers. “And that's why I have you,” she quietly adds.

He wordlessly stammers for a moment when she joins him on the couch, sitting closer than usual. A moment later, she delicately settles in against his side, almost as if she's afraid he'll bolt like skittish horse. When he wraps his arm around her, she relaxes and pulls a blue fleece blanket over them.

He pulls up the movie on Netflix, and they settle in.

Abbie has seen the movie several times, so she doesn't need to pay close attention to it, choosing instead to enjoy this new experience. Her hands wander a bit beneath the blanket, but while she keeps things fairly G-rated (or PG at the most), it quickly becomes clear that Crane's attention is not on the movie either.

“Abbie,” he says, his voice a bit huskier than usual.

She moves her hand from his thigh. “Sorry,” she whispers. He finds her hand and puts it back. Then he moves the arm around her shoulders down so his hand is on her waist. Then her hip.

She sighs and relaxes against him again, and they attempt to watch the movie. Five minutes later, his fingers skim the bare skin just below the hem of her shirt. Abbie closes her eyes, trying to picture what his large, graceful hands look like against her skin. She's had _thoughts_ about his hands plenty of times, and now that he's actually touching her _that_ way with them, she's not sure how long she's going to be able to sit there and not do anything. She bites her lip and opens her eyes.

“I may have to watch this movie again,” he comments, looking down at her. “I fear I am not giving it the attention it deserves.” His fingers skim her thigh and he reaches for her chin with his other hand, gently tilting his face towards his. “And I fear I am not giving _you_ the attention you deserve.”

“You're doing fine,” she whispers in reply, because that is all she can manage with his hand on her bare thigh and her hand on his clothed thigh and his warm body pressed against hers and his lips so close.

He opens his mouth again, searching for words, but she leans up and stops any before they can make it out, sealing her lips over his and delicately flicking her tongue into his mouth. As soon as her lips touch his, all her hesitation, all her fears fly out the window and she wonders how she possibly went so long denying herself.

Crane groans and immediately returns her kiss, his arms tightening around her. The hand on her leg moves to her hip again, this time under her t-shirt. His fingers splay wide and he pulls her closer until she breaks away for just a second to straddle his lap.

“Abbie!” he exclaims, her enthusiasm catching him off guard. He fixes her in his gaze and smiles. “Your nervousness has left?”

She nods, then softly pecks his lips. “I don't know why I was worried. I mean, yes, I do know, but… this feels so good,” she says, leaning her forehead against his. “Being with you. It feels… _right._ ”

Overjoyed, he pulls her into another kiss, returning his hand where it was, except now it is gripping more buttock than hip. His other hand gently cups the back of her head, his long forearm supporting her upper back.

She moans into his mouth, her fingers in his hair, his beard, over his shirt, and under his shirt as they descend further into one another.

His fingers skim the skin of her rear below the bottom of her boy shorts and she shivers at the ticklish sensation.

“Turn the movie off,” he rumbles, tearing his lips away from hers to skim down the side of her neck.

Abbie gropes for the remote control and reluctantly twists away from his lips to deal with the television. “Bedroom,” she says, tossing the remote on the cushion beside them.

“Which one?” Ichabod asks, tightening his grip on her. “Hold on.”

“I have a more comfortable bed,” she says, hanging on to his neck as he stands with her wrapped around him. The ease with which he does this both surprises and arouses her.

He strides to her bedroom, struggling only because she is distracting him by kissing his neck.

He kicks the door closed behind him and gently places her on the bed, where she disentangles herself from him. The hem of the t-shirt is bunched around her waist now, but she doesn't bother fixing it. She kicks her slippers off and waits, grateful that they don't have to interrupt things with an awkward discussion about birth control. Sharing a house – and bathroom – with a very curious man means several awkward discussions (“Are you ill, Lieutenant? Why do you take these pills each day?”) have already taken place.

Crane's eyes darken as he gazes down at her, lingering over her thighs and the bit of stomach that is showing. He drops to his knees and traces the edge of her panties with one long finger. “What do you call this type of undergarment?” he asks, staring as though fascinated.

Abbie knows he is looking for something more specific than “panties”, so she says, “They're called boy shorts.”

The eyebrow goes up again. “I have my doubts about whether or not most boys would wear such an item,” he assesses.

She laughs. “It's just what they're called,” she says, lifting up on her elbows. She loves watching him, loves seeing his expressive face as he makes these little discoveries.

He drops his head and kisses her knee, then grasps her legs, pulling her towards him.

“Crane, what…? Oh.” Her head drops back when he reaches for the black boy shorts and draws them down her legs. She feels the tickle of his beard just before the warm, moist press of his lips on her thigh, and her fingers curl into the bed spread. “Mmm.”

He pulls her right up to the edge of the bed and begins kissing his way up her inner thigh.

Abbie was not expecting this at all, but there is no way in hell, heaven, or purgatory she's stopping him. When his tongue slides into her folds, she gasps, her back arching. “Oh, God, Crane…” she gasps.

He smiles against her, his lips and tongue doing sinful, wonderful things to her. When he slips a finger inside as well, she cries out, grabbing his hair with one hand, not sure if she needs to pull him away or hold him there.

She can feel him chuckling. _Chuckling,_ the arrogant bastard, as he works her over with his mouth, clearly enjoying the effect he is having on her.

“Ah… mmm…” Little gasps and mewls are coming from her now and staying still is becoming very difficult despite the iron grip he has on her. Finally she comes, shouting some sort of garbled obscenity. He stays put, easing off but not stopping until she yanks his hair and he relents.

Crane's look of smug triumph is both irritating and sexy as hell and Abbie lightly kicks him in the side. He merely leans down and kisses her hipbone before sliding his hands upward, pushing the shirt high enough to expose her breasts.

He begins placing soft kisses on them, but stops her when she moves to remove the garment. “Leave it on,” he says. Then he stands and removes his own shirt, tossing it aside.

She sits up and places her hands on his sides. His skin is warm, surprisingly soft, and covered in just the right amount of dark hair. She leans forward and kisses his stomach, slipping her small hands beneath the waistband of his pants. “Ooo, what is this? Captain Crane sleeps commando?” She slides her hands down and grabs two very satisfactory handfuls of rear end.

“Must let… things breathe a bit… you see…” Crane mutters, no longer smug, having come rather undone by her touch.

“No, I don't see,” she answers, grinning. “Not yet anyway.” And with that, she begins pushing his pants down until they fall in a puddle around his feet. He steps out of them, but before she can follow through with her plan to wrap her lips around the rather impressive shaft suddenly right in front of her, he pounces, leaning over and kissing her until he is over her on the bed, surrounding her small body with his.

“I fear,” he says, kissing her, “that if I allow you to do what you intended,” he kisses her again, “this would be over much too quickly.”

Abbie laughs, throwing her head back. Ichabod takes advantage, latching onto her neck, leaving a trail of wet, sucking kisses until he reaches the collar of her t-shirt. Then he simply moves around it, back to her breasts.

“There are no words that do justice to your beauty, Abigail,” he says, moving over her, dropping kisses on spots that seem to be random, but each one sends a jolt through Abbie, so she wonders if he knows something she doesn't about women's bodies. _Or maybe just mine._

She cradles his hips with her legs, her hand snaking down to reach for his impressive length, wanting to hold it, to feel it, to feel _him_ , warm and heavy in her hand.

“You are… a sublime creature,” he continues, trying to find words despite having claimed none existed. He comes back up and kisses her, grunting softly when her hand finally reaches and begins stroking him, her small fingers strong and skilled. “Deserving of nothing less than worship.” He ghosts his hand over her breast as he reaches down to touch her.

She gasps and arches when his fingers slide into her. “Mmm, yes,” she whispers, tilting her hips to encourage him to do more.

He does. Her hand falters. He smugly chuckles. She regroups. His hand falters.

“Abbie… you must stop, Love,” he says, his voice husky in her ear. He shifts slightly, settling between her thighs. He kisses her once more, then she deftly guides him into her.

“Ohhhh….” she moans, lifting her hips to meet him.

He nearly collapses over her, overwhelmed by the sensation of finally being with her this way. “Abbie…” he fervently whispers. “Oh, Abbie, my dearest.”

He begins moving, his thrusts steady and smooth, and she runs her hands up and down his chest, beginning to learn every inch of him. She exhales a soft, “Ahh…” then reaches up and pulls his face down to hers so she can kiss him.

A moment later, she tightens her grasp on his shoulders and he finds himself on his back with her straddling his hips.

He raises a saucy eyebrow. “Mmm,” he hums, clearly approving of this change.

Abbie's t-shirt has dropped back down over her torso, but Ichabod is undeterred, merely slipping his hands up under the garment. In fact, he rather enjoys watching her ride him clad in his shirt.

She moans, her head dropping back as his skillful fingers find her nipples. She moves faster and harder as the sensations build between them.

When he drops one hand down to touch her, it is just what she needs to fall over the edge. “Oh!” It's more of a sharp exhale than a shout, her fingers digging into his forearm while her rhythm falters for a second. “Mmm…”

Crane immediately follows, his hands now gripping her hips, holding her still while his entire body tenses and he comes with a low grunt.

Abbie leans down and gently kisses him, pouring all the words that are jammed up inside of her into it, hoping he really does know her as well as he thinks.

When she pulls back and sees the look in his eyes as he gazes down at her, she knows he does. She knows he has understood everything she wasn't able to tell him.

He tenderly gathers her to his side, smoothing her hair back and caressing her cheek. He even reaches down and straightens out her t-shirt, murmuring something about not wishing her to get cold.

“I didn't plan this you know,” she says after a moment. “I mean _this_ ,” she clarifies, gesturing to the bed. “Obviously wearing the shirt was intentional, but I didn't put it on with the hopes of winding up here.” She lifts her head. “Not that I'm complaining or anything, but I wanted to let—”

He kisses her, stopping her words. “You're babbling, Lieutenant,” he says, repeating what she said to him earlier. He smiles down at her, and it is such a rare sight – Ichabod Crane, genuinely smiling out of pure happiness – that it makes her heart melt. She finds herself grinning stupidly back at him. “And I know you did not don this garment,” he plucks the sleeve, “with seduction on your mind.” He kisses her forehead and says, “Not that I'm complaining or anything.”

Abbie chuckles, and it quickly becomes full laughter as she realizes something.

“Is something funny?” Crane asks, giving her that sideways look he often bestows upon her.

“Yes,” she answers, lifting up on her elbow to look down at him. “We've just experienced our first 'Netflix and chill', Crane.”

“Ah. Well, then,” he answers, an amused smirk on his face, “I do hope it won't be our last.”


End file.
